The memory held in a stone, more clearly than a photograph, the image is captured. This one, stored by my hand, my eye, with a thick jagged seam of white crossing the top third leaking its milky contact into the smooth interior, towards its rounded edges. This rock that fits inside the triangle of my palm it tells me of a moment in a day it chose me echoing calling at me as I stepped over it on that steep, rutted path that seemed to find its pleasure pulling the sun into its dusty yellow surface and bouncing our faces, where we sat shaded but sweating as we waited for a friend who is no longer one. When she left the harness, just purchased, for the dog who had not gone back with her, but was hanging out with us. Occasionally escorting whoever was dashing into the sparse scrubs between pines to pee before returning to sit on a log or a rock or hover on the path the size of a road. And this clear video from time connects to the ones before and after. Links a smile of swimming naked together in the middle of the day in a lake that was just ours. The silk of water against thigh and nipple, the slip of mud and slimy rocks we attempted to avoid as we tipped our toes across and belly flopped over earlier than the depth allowed the tired links and the growing goose bumps and purpling digits we ignored as we avoided recrossing the same swallowed shore we needed to return to.
After an annoyance birthed by seven hours of flamenco music, as it was all we had to drown out the engine rattles of the old red car that carried us all back and forth on this days’ adventure. Even as the annoyance grew my laughter bubbled and I suspect after the gap of time I am now finding a lack of hate if not like for this music.
I do not hold this stone as I tell the story as I pull of the memories. But I see it as I pick it up, and the image of it pulls the moment back. Will be stronger as I touch it in truth once again?
Is this a touchstone? Can I have as many as I do? Is a touchstone a memory holder or a reminder of focus?